


and you can follow

by redstaronmyshoulder (CaptainAmelia22)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Discussions on Death, F/M, Murder, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Sacrifice, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/redstaronmyshoulder
Summary: The Inquisitor hunts the Dread Wolf and finally she catches him.Trevelyan always faces death calmly.





	and you can follow

**Author's Note:**

> I finished Dragon Age Inquisition the other night and Trespasser broke me. I was not prepared for the level of betrayal I felt. 
> 
> This fic is just...something I had to get off of my chest after finishing Trespasser. It's kind of how I'd like to face Solas myself I suppose. 
> 
> Sorry for the pain!

“Solas.”

Her low voice echoed in the eerie silence that had filled the crossroads for the past month or so.

It had been a year since he’d taken her arm and stepped through the eluvian, away from her. Away from the Inquisition. Away from the world of human and Dalish alike.

But the silence in the crossroads had only been complete for a month.

“You should not have followed me, Inquisitor,” he said, his voice soft. Weary.

He was tired of running.

Tired of running from the dogged steps of the Trevelyan woman.

“You know I’d never be able to do that, my friend.”

He winced at that soft declaration of her loyalty. After all this time. After all he’d done to her. After all he’d taken from her.

“I am not your friend, shem,” he said, the words twisting in his mouth and he gazed at the dull shadow of her reflection in the eluvian he stood before. “I was never your friend.”

A bitter laugh. The faint chime of beads and bones. She’d shaken her head.

“You can keep lying to yourself, Fen’harel,” she said, the soft clatter of rocks the only sign she’d taken another slow, careful step in his direction. “But I’ve gotten used to you lying now. And your words fall flat.” Another chuckle. The noise awakened a storm of memories in his mind and he shuddered, hand rising to press against the warm surface of the mirror.

Memories of the Trevelyan woman singing bawdy songs in the tavern. Of her dancing in the Commander’s arms, head tossed back as she teased him. Memories of her dispatching demons and monstrosities without breaking a sweat, snarling in Qunlat with each swing of her axe. Memories of her standing before him, time and again, ready to take whatever damage he tossed her way, ready to die for their friends.

For a human she had always been the fiercest. For a human...the noblest.

He didn’t want to kill her, not really.

Not now.

Did he?

“I know you lie, Solas,” she said. “You have always lied. The Dalish legends got that right at the very least. You protest...but you know it’s true. They got that right.”

A soft breath on the back of his neck. A dark shadow looming up behind him in the eluvian’s rippled surface.

Her hand resting on his shoulder, metal fingers curling gently at juncture of neck and shoulder.

“What are your gods telling you to do now, wolf?” she whispered in his ear, and he could feel the point of her dagger pressing up against his kidney, between plates of dented and dirt stained armor.

She’d chased him for a year. Chased him, doggedly, the metal of her prosthetic shining as fiercely as the cool determination in her blue eyes.

She was no mage, the Trevelyan woman.

But she had always been a worthy opponent. Sheer will and force of spirit was a worthy match to his ancient magic.

Fen’harel closed his eyes and listened to the silence of the crossroads.

There were no whispers of the gods, urging him forward. The Fade barely responded to his twisting magic.

There was...silence.

“Nothing,” he said, his fingers clenching on the eluvian’s surface. “I hear...nothing.”

_For the first time in millenia…_

Her metal fingers twitched, sensing his turmoil and he imagined the puckering in her brow as she considered his words. Considered the tactical advantage she may get from such a confession.

And then she sighed.

“Shame that, really,” she said, her husky voice cracking a bit. “I was hoping they’d be able to tell you how to give me my fucking arm back.”

Before he could react, she spun him around, hand moving to grip his chin in a tight grip. The cold metal of her left hand made his skin prickle and he winced.

“Fen’harel,” she sighed, studying him carefully. This was the closest they’d been in a year. She’d chased him through the Fade. Through the bowels of Thedas herself.

Through wilderness and shadows.

Always with that small smirk on her face.

Always with her massive battleaxe close to hand.

“Inquisitor,” he said, simply, his words stiff due to the vice grip on his jaw. He tried to summon his magic, tried to slip into the cool embrace of the mirror.

But nothing…

Silence greeted his probings.

And Trevelyan was grinning ferally now.

“Having troubles, wolf?” she asked, cocking her head when the color drained from his face and he felt the slow seeping of his power draining into her palm. “Thought that might happen, I’m afraid.” Her eyes narrowed. “Dagna got something right in the creation of this monstrosity at least.”

His stomach dropped at the dwarf’s name. “Dagna?” he hissed, baring his teeth in an instinctive snarl and she arched a scarred brow. “What did the artificer do?”

She bared her own teeth in a snarl. “What do your gods _say_ , traitor?”

Gone was the laughter. Gone was the bright joyful light that had always lit her light blue eyes, even as she lay bleeding out after a battle.

Gone was the woman he had fought alongside for too many months to count.

Gone.

All gone.

For the first time in millennia...He began to fear.

He glanced at the prosthetic, with some difficulty, and raised his hand to stroke it’s surface. Cool metal met his touch. Twisting runes, to give her the power to operate it like a true limb. Precious stones to give it fortitude and magical protections. Something…

Else.

Something…

Familiar.

She watched him, watched the play of emotions on his face. He could not hide anything from her, this close to her. This long being her prey.

He could not…

Breathe.

“Lyrium.” The word fell flat from his lips and his eyes closed. “She infused lyrium in the fingers. In the palm. Like the lyrium stones the Templars used to make mages Tranquil.”

Another soft chime as she tossed her head.

“Your gods tell you that, wolf?” she snapped, fingers tensing on his jaw, hard enough to crack bone and he winced, eyes watering at the humiliation. At the pain.

Pain he saw reflected in her gaze.

“Let me go, Inquisitor,” he said, choking on the words, on the bitter taste of begging. “Let me go and I will…”

Her eyes flashed.

“What,” she snarled, shaking him a bit and making him cringe against the mirror. “You’ll what, Solas? Bring back Sera? The Chargers? _Varric_?”

She snorted and the pain he felt could be nothing compared to the pain she felt. He understood that. Had always understood that.

And still he had carried out his plan.

“You fucked this up, mighty god that you are,” she hissed, leaning into him and her dagger was back, pressed up into his diaphragm. “You failed in bringing your gods back. You killed Mythal. You killed my friends.” She slammed him up against the mirror now and the sound of glass cracking, splintering with the force of her blow set his heart racing.

“Inquisitor,” he said softly, begging still and she shook her head. “Say my name, _Solas_ ,” she snarled, eyes blazing with righteous fury. “I know you can. Say it, so it’s the last thing I have to hear coming out of your stupid, fool, godly mouth.

In that moment…

She truly was the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste.

The Maker’s mouthpiece.

In that moment…

He knew he failed.

“Inquisitor,” he said, eyes closing, hands rising to wrap gently around her wrists. “Please.”

Silence.

Complete. Oppressive.

Silence.

And then...a soft breath and the soft chime of beads and bones braided through black and silver hair. She bowed her head over his, her eyes closing wearily.

“Please what, my friend?” she asked, her voice gentle.

Kind.

The voice of a Chantry Mother, praying over her charges.

He shuddered.

“End this,” he hissed, eyes rising to meet hers and some of his old power flashed through his skin, warming him, briefly, before even that was dragged through his soul and into the lyrium limning her metal palm.

“End it.”

Cold blue eyes met his. Practical. Calculating.

The eyes of a warrior. Of a fierce commander.

A worthy opponent.

Her lip curled. Her metal fingers tightened their grip.

“Very well, god,” she said quietly, the fury drained from her voice, leaning into him, putting her whole weight behind the dagger pressing against his belly. “If you insist.”

Cold metal, unyielding and final stabbed into his belly and he gasped, arching against her.

Every sense screamed at him to run, to fight, to bite and claw and kick. To summon lightning. To summon frost and fire.

To let the wolf go.

But the blade was lyrium as well. A brilliant, clever concoction of the dwarf crafter.

It sapped him, even as it bled him and he sagged against the Inquisitor’s strong, armor clad form with a moan.

“You didn’t have to do this, Solas,” she whispered, her flesh and bone hand rising to cup the back of his skull, pinning him to her, even as she dragged the razor sharp blade in his guts up slowly towards his struggling lungs and fast beating heart. She was gutting him as a hunter would gut a beast. It chilled him as nothing else ever could. “You did not have to do this, this way. We would have helped you. _I_ would have found a way to help you. Somehow...Some way.”

“You-” he coughed, blood pooling in his mouth to spill across her chest. “You are a human. A _shem_.” He laughed, ratcheting breaths shredding his organs even as her blade cut him deep. “You would never know how to help me.”

She sighed.

The blade hovered beneath his heart, blood, warm and viscous spilling between their entangled bodies and she stroked her fingers along his neck.

“Oh Fen’harel,” she said, her voice far more solemn than he had ever heard in their too many years of camaraderie. “You never let me _try_.”

The lyrium blade slid home then, twisting deep into his heart and his eyes went wide as he realized this was much more than a plain lyrium and iron dagger.

There was magic here.

Familiar magic.

“Dorian,” he choked, eyes rising to meet hers and his hand shook when he placed it on her pale, tattooed cheek. “Dorian- _how_.”

She smiled, the expression sad and benevolent, and for a moment, in the golden half-light of the Crossroads…

She appeared a god.

“Old Tevinter magic,” she said, twisting the blade once more and a bright rune he had not noticed before flashed, lending an eerie, iridescent light to her pale eyes. “Seems the Magisters of old truly did learn a thing or two about killing the Old Gods. When they weren’t finding new ways to tear each other’s throats out at least.”

He felt it then.

Death.

The cold, brittle sensation of his limbs going numb, turning to dust where he stood. It was familiar, fresh in his memory only because he had so recently murdered Mythal. It had been a mere three years since he had shoved his hand into the Witch’s chest and stolen her heart.

Flemeth’s death had been quick. Easy. She had been old and her magic spread thin…

Her death had been quick…

“They said you might suffer,” she said now, her eyes gazing into his. Trevelyan had never flinched from death. Even the ones she had been forced to mete out.

She had faced each with her shoulders straight and her jaw outthrust. A warrior with practicality and expediency on her side.

“Killing a god in his bloom is never easy,” she sighed, her fingers gentle on his skin and he was sagging now, his legs no longer able to support him. She followed him to the ground, holding him tight. The blade, bright with lyrium and Dorian’s foreign magic, lit their faces.

“Tell me why,” she whispered to him and there were tears in her eyes. There was sorrow in the lines of her face. In the faint tremble of her hand on the back of his head. His fingers spasmed on the metal limb, feebly trying to pull it free of his chest but it was pointless and he sighed.

“I have told you this already,” he said. “I am Fen’harel. I am the Trickster.”

Soft chime of beads and bones. She shook her head and kept her grip tight on the knife. They were kneeling before the cracked eluvian. The Crossroads were golden and silent.

The last vestiges of his old home.

“I trusted you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I considered you a friend.”

He gazed up at her and thought of her smiling in the sunlight filling Skyhold’s gardens. Thought of her playing chess with her lover. Of her fighting with Bull in the practice yards, their bellows echoing through the rest of the keep.

Thought of her dying, too many times, after taking too many blows meant to lay him or Dorian or Sera low.

She would die for all of them, he knew that. Had known that since the Temple, when she’d thrown off Cassandra’s hold and stood with chin held high under the Breach.

He had been doomed from the first moment she held that Marked hand high.

He’d just been too proud to see it.

“You were always a better person than I could ever hope to be,” he sighed, the cold presence of death finally starting to rise through his chest and wrap its indifferent fingers around his throat. “I-I failed.”

She snorted, the sound watery as her tears finally started to fall and wasn’t that just the strangest thing of this whole endeavor.

She still managed to cry over him.

After all he’d taken from her.

“You damned fool,” she said and finally the lyrium in her hand was going dark, no longer finding anything to draw at. His breath whistled in his chest and Death watched from the Fade, waiting for her to release him once more. “I would have laid myself at your feet if it meant you’d stop this stupid, pointless war.”

“I know.”

His hand fell limply into his lap. He no longer had the strength to remain upright. She held him tight.

And the Inquisitor cried over him.

“I know, Katari,” he said and finally…

Finally, his heart stopped and Death raised its head, howling in triumph, just beyond the Veil.

**

The Crossroads were silent.

Silent and golden.

A pyre smoldered to ashes before a darkened, cracked eluvian, all that lingered in the ashes a blackened wolf jaw bone.

With a shaky sigh, the mighty Inquisitor, supposed Herald of Andraste, straightened her shoulders, scrubbed tears from her face and swung her battleaxe across her back.

“Finally,” she said to the pyre, her face unreadable. “Goodbye my friend.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and made her way through the twisted paths of the Crossroads to the last intact eluvian, glowing faintly in the distance.

The Crossroads were silent.

But as she stepped through the rippled magic of the mirror, she caught the faint howl of a wolf and somewhere, just out of her range of vision, a green light flashed.

With a sigh she shook her head.

“Destroy it,” she told the soldiers waiting for her, their eyes wide as they took in the blood covering her scaled armor, the lyrium dagger she still clutched tightly in her metal hand.

“Yes, my lady,” the boys said, saluting and she waved them away, already making her way past into the cellars of Leliana's headquarters. The sound of sledge hammers crashing through glass and rending metal was a lullaby to her ears.

And she smiled, eyes closing in relief as she stepped into warm, glowing sunlight.

“It’s done then?” a voice said from the shadows beside the doorway she had just walked through and she turned to see a familiar golden and scarlet figure watching her.

“As done as it can be, I think,” she said, eyes starting to sparkle when he pushed off the wall to approach her, his golden eyes blazing at the sight of the dried blood coating her chest, her hands.

“Finally,” he sighed, taking her into his arms and planting a light kiss to her lips. “Thank the Maker.”

“Yes,” she sighed, eyes closing, dagger falling from her hand as she wrapped her arms tight around his waist. “Thank the gods…”

She closed her eyes and tried to not think of that strange flash of green.

Tried to not think of a wolf howling almost too soft to hear.

Tried to not think of a blackened wolf bone glowing blackly in flames.

_Please let this be over..._

  



End file.
